


The Wound Is the Place Where the Light Enters You

by wyrd_eater



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Child Abuse, Child Death, Crusades, Pre-Canon, Religious Abuse, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23367805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrd_eater/pseuds/wyrd_eater
Summary: "These scars are on the inside... and much too old."An exploration of Reynauld's past through the marks it left behind, both within and without.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I based the events in this fic on the Crusader's Afflicted barks, mostly his Irrational ones. They're pretty interesting if you take the time to read through them. I may do this with Dismas as well and make it a part of a larger series.
> 
> If you can recognize all the references to his barks without checking the wiki, then I hereby declare you to be the One True Darkest Dungeon Fan.

Lightning-hot lick of pain, from right shoulder to left hip, bright enough to blind. Wildfire agony races to fill the steaming furrow left behind by the vicious tongue of the whip. The candles bloom into round, shimmering eyes, twirling and blending into each other forever and ever. The beams shudder as a scream pierces straight through them, up into the silent heavens. Shoulders too young to bear a yoke, let alone such a righteous smiting, strain against rope thicker than the boy’s wrists.

“Save your cries for the Darkness, boy, and let the pain be your penitence.”

The thin wail of a fresh calf separated from its soft mother.

“ _FATHER! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE! IM SORRY, SORRY… SORRY! STOP! PLEASE!”_

“Has sin taken your ears as well as your heart? I said to be _SILENT!”_

The crack is deafening in the small chamber. The torture that follows it is twice so, left shoulder to right hip. He twists and bites halfway through his tongue, trying to obey. Blood fills his mouth like bitter worship wine. It spills over his chin in a burbling cry.

“Blessed Light, accept this faithless ward’s blood as due payment for his slothfulness. Break through the Darkness clouding his young mind and guide him to Your Brilliance. Let his devotion be strengthened through his suffering.”

The whip slices from base of his neck, over the first two stripes, and down to the top of his cotton trousers. He is suspended in a perfect whirl of torment. The chamber is as far away as the eastern seas, yet close enough to smother with the stench of mildew. The tides of his breath roar in and out of him and shake his thin body like a wayward piece of driftwood stuck on the waves.

“Forgive me for my soft hand in his raising, eternal Flame, I have let the weakness of my mortal heart guide me. I will bring him up to serve You, as a soldier against corruption. As You will it, so it shall be. Amen.”

The final blow, from left to right between his shoulder blades. He feels every tear in his skin, but he is not wearing it anymore. He’s somewhere else, off smelling the hyacinth that grows on the southern wall of the church courtyard… the birds are singing to the rising sun… It’s time to go to morning prayer, but it is oh so comfortable and warm here in these bushes, with the light kissing his eyes closed…

The Darkness has come to swallow him whole! No! It is as Father said! Forgive me! Please!

Cold hands grasp underneath his armpits and keep him upright. The rope has disappeared. His head lolls and bobs, as though untethered. Father’s face swirls like an oil painting in a fire.

“Repent, my son. Release the sin you harbor.”

“Fasser…” His tongue is a half-dead thing, thrashing dumbly against his teeth. “Sthorry…”

“You do not need to ask for my clemency, as I have already forgiven you. Send your penitence to the Light.”

“Light, forgihve… me, pthease…”

The chamber dips and turns. Father cradles him close to his cassock and delivers him from the penance hall.

_~_

Penance scars are not healed through miracles. They are healed by hours, days, weeks, every closed wound painfully and gracefully earned. Brother Klaus keeps them clean and bandaged, but he does not pray over them. He is bed-ridden for the first three days, unable to move without splitting the flesh anew. He watches the sky from his bed. The clouds roll over one another like cottony kittens. The sunrise melts into sunset melts into stars and back again. Birds chatter over the distant calls of the marketplace. The smell of the warm hyacinths that sprout underneath his window makes him ill.

Father comes in every morning to lead him in prayer and give him his rites. He’s as gentle as ever, his voice soft and his eyes shining with kindness. Reynauld cannot help but flinch from him when his thumb circles over his forehead to give him the Blessing. Father’s lined face creases deeper with sadness at his reaction. Guilt pierces Reynauld, deep in his gut.

“Fear not, my ward,” Father says, a small smile on his face. “All that I do is for love of your soul. You will come to understand this, in time.”

“It hurts,” he whispers back. His jaw trembles. He firmly clamps it shut. He’s too old to be crying. “Why does it have to hurt so much?”

Father touches the bandages, his hand lighter than a dove’s feather. Hot nausea rises up, makes his ears ring and his eyes cloud. He chokes down a breath. Rage, darker than he’s ever felt before, swirls through his mind, and he balls his fists into his blanket to keep from lashing out against him. He trembles under the rebellion of his body, tears crawling over his cheeks, but still Father will not remove his hand. He bites through the skin on the inside of his cheek. _Why won’t he stop touching him?!_

“The pain is a purifier. It rids the mind and body of all earthly thoughts and sensations. It makes the vessel clean again, ready to receive the Light’s warmth. Did you not feel it?”

The weakness wins out. Reynauld keens, pressing his fists hard into his eyes. Father murmurs comfort that he cannot make out over his own screams. Father pulls him into his large chest with his gentle hands and strokes his hair. Reynauld beats against him with all of his meager might. His heart is drumming frantically in his ears, his blood runs hot and cold through his body, sends his skin prickling and his bones trembling. _Dying! I’m dying! He’s killing me! Stop! Stop! Stop!_ No words can slip around the plug of sickness in his chest.

Father kisses the top of his head. Reynauld vomits down the front of his cassock.

~

_CCCRRRAACCCKsplash!_

Avah’s red mittens wave in the air. They slap at the ice around her.

The duck pond is always frozen at this time of year. The last of the ducks flew away south as the last of the wheat had been gathered. They will remain in whatever warm paradise they have fled to until the first thaw of spring. The rushes lining the pond are whittled down to brittle sticks by the persistent cold and the surrounding trees are crooked shadows of their springtime selves. It is the preferred haunt of town children, eager to get away with shirking their meager wintertime duties. Situated just on the edge of the forest, it is far enough away from the town to escape the prying eyes of adults.

Today, Reynauld is the only child on its banks. The first hard freeze had been milder than last year’s, which makes the snowy winter morning all the more pleasant. The pond, although glittering in its helm of ice, hasn’t frozen thick enough to skate on safely. The chaffinches twitter about, undisturbed by the drowning girl. Reynauld’s skates hang idly by his side. His face is hot, and his hands are freezing.

Her mittens sink below the water. Reynauld runs away.

~

“Have you seen Avah today, Reynauld?”

“No, Sister.”

“She wasn’t at the duck pond this morning?”

“No, Sister.”

“Hm. Well, if you do see her, tell her that her parents are very worried about her. If this is some sort of game, she should stop playing it right away.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Good boy. Now, run along to supper.”

Reynauld skips supper that night. Instead, he slinks back to his closet-sized room and curls up in his cold bed. He wraps his arms around his middle, trying to hold in the gnawing ache that threatens to consume him completely. He should cry. Now is the time to cry, if there ever was a time. He stares at the wall. The sun is setting. The orangish light is trickling from the room with every heartbeat, leaving behind a washed-out, colorless nothing. Reynauld closes his eyes. Selfish. That’s what he is. He thinks of Avah’s family, of her mother crying and her father calling her name in the streets. He thinks about what would happen to him if he was discovered as the one who stood by and watched her… her…

Irrational energy bubbles up. He rolls over onto his stomach, bites his mattress, thrashes his fists, but nothing changes. He screams into it until his throat is hoarse, but his repentant tears still won’t come. All he can feel is fear, fear of being discovered for the coward he is, fear of being punished again. He thrashes himself until he can move no more, panting into his covers. When he is done, he rolls over onto his side. The last of the sunlight has drained from the room.

He wiggles off of his bed and onto the floor. His knees hit the stone hard. He brings his hands together, bends his head, and prays. He speaks into his knuckles, teeth scraping over his skin. His words stumble and meander, lost but seeking. He pours his heart into the cup that forever overflows. The tears finally pour over, every warm drop a mindless offering to the Light. His eyes droop with exhaustion after a few minutes, a couple hours, an entire lifetime of confession. He crawls back into his bed.

He sleeps, then, and never thinks of Avah again, except in moments like these, when the light has left him.

~

He lands hard on the last step, right at the base of his neck. The sharp edge takes a chunk of his skin with it. Whiteness veils his vision, heralding a shock of all-encompassing pain. He shrieks and twists in on himself like a dying spider. Rapid footsteps thunder down after him.

He forces himself onto his back, then his knees, then his feet, despite his ringing ears and tingling limbs. He stumbles back, away from the tight-lipped, wild-eyed man pursuing him. Far down the curving hallway comes the distant crack of a whip followed by the howl of a repentant soul.

“Coward!” Father surges up against him, nearly nose to nose. “Disgraceful! Face your punishment, you impudent little boy!”

“Father! Please!” He shuffles backwards, knees as loose as an unfastened shutter in a storm. His back aches and hunches under memories of his past purgings. “Not the whip!” The back of his collar is wet. His lips are numb. His traitorous eyes offer up tears. “Please! I had to do _something_!”

“SILENCE!” Flecks of spit spray over Reynauld’s face. A sob rises in answer. Father’s palm connects with his cheek. Reynauld cups at the burning skin with his hand. “You should be _thanking_ me for such a measly consequence! Were it up to the Bishop, you’d be burning as we speak.” Father stuck his finger in his face, his ruby-red ring glittering in the torchlight. “Do you have any idea how this reflects on me? DO YOU?”

Reynauld shakes his head. “Father, forgive me, please. I didn’t know… I thought I could help.” His voice cracks on the pathetic cries that bubble out of his throat.

“Your lying tongue only digs your grave deeper. Now, will you enter of your own free will and shed your wickedness, or will the clerks have to drag you in?”

Reynauld quivers. He stands taller than Father, who has become stooped with old age. His feebleness shows in the rheumy sheen on his eyes and the frail slump of his shoulders. It would be an easy thing to topple the aged priest and dash back up the stairs. He swallows down a wail and steadies his breath. _Light preserve my soul_. _Restore me from wickedness._

“No, Father. Forgive me.” He turns and steps into the cold, lightless chamber. He kneels, removes his shirt, and bows his head. He squeezes his eyes shut. His tears wet the stone as the lash claims its first share of skin.

~

 _No more_ , he thinks, lying awake in his bed, the third day after his cleansing. _No more of this._

Reynauld cleans his own wounds now. There is no Brother Klaus to tend to his back. He died in his bed two seasons ago, his gnarled hands clutching his prayer book. His eyes had been open when they had discovered him. His mouth had been twisted into a rictus of fear. What had he seen, there at the end? The Light? Or, perhaps... No. Brother Klaus had been a pious man. A good man. It is natural to fear the first step into the unknown, no matter how beautiful. 

Father does not come to his room to give him his rites while his back mends. Reynauld drags himself out of his bed and staggers to the sanctuary, where he stiffly sits with the congregation. He is not a child anymore. His pain is his to bear alone.

He could run away with her. The thought of her imbues his heart a wonderful, dangerous sort of frailty. Delicate, yet hopeful, sated, yet hungry. He closes his eyes and thinks of the fragrance of her chestnut hair. It smells like warm anointing oil when the sun touches it. Yes… Perhaps there he could find solace. Peace. A home.

They are married by the end of the season. Father officiates the wedding. Reynauld’s parents had left behind a small land title, just big enough for a modest farm and a modest house. He carries her over the threshold, laughing, and they become as one.

~

 _Thwick_. The scimitar brushes over his left cheek and kisses the top of his ear, slicing the air where his head had been barely a heartbeat before. A stinging stripe buzzes in its wake. Warm wetness follows. The man in front of him is vivid with life, his flushed face dripping with sweat and taut with determined fear.

It’s as simple as catching oneself before tumbling over an obstacle. A prickling strength fills his arms and sends his blade swinging in a wide arc. Warm blood coats his face.

The body hits the ground.

His first life.

There is no time to reflect. Another man replaces him. The battle rages on.

~

The blade slips into the deadly little gap between pauldron and breastplate, nestling its sharp nose into his flesh. The pain is piercing and deep, enough to shock his sword into action. He swings it up in the breathless gap between wound and death. It strikes true and sends a warm spray of blood over his face. The man – boy? – falls to his knees, gasping and gurgling. He kicks it to the ground, wheels away, left arm limp at his side. The afternoon sun is blinding. Sweat crawls into his eyes.

Clank and roar and scream and tear and pulse. Blood wets his padded undershirt and makes him list to the side. Flash of movement. A quick parry. His pommel glances off the man’s forehead and sends him reeling back. His blade eats into his temple. He lands, twitching, at Reynauld’s feet.

Numbness consumes half of his body. He stumbles back, heels catching on a groaning body, and thuds into the steaming sand. His breath wheezes out between his cracked lips. Elizabeth’s kind face smiles behind his drooping eyes. The soft skin of his son nuzzles up against the nothing. Light be merciful, Light relieve this burden, Light, please, _please_ , make it quick…

A thing of shadow blots out the sun. “Reynauld?” Rough prodding around his wound. “Ack. Can’t be deeper than an inch or so, or you’d have already breathed your last. Come on, now, stop wallowing around in the sand. You’ve got life yet to give, my boy.”

A strong hand clasps his forearm and hauls him upright. The sun has nearly set. Black birds wheel in the crimson. They peck at the corners of his vision. The stench of sweat and blood and shit and death wraps around his face and wriggles down his throat. The dunes loom up to kiss him.

“Ump!” Bertrand sticks his shoulder under his right armpit and loops an arm around his waist, narrowly saving him from another spill. “Let’s get you to the physick. Nothing a packing, a gauze, and a prayer can’t mend.”

“Victory?” It’s all he can manage around the dull throbbing slowly filling him.

They step over a man without a right hand. His teeth gnash at nothing and his eyes rove senselessly. Reynauld doesn’t speak his tongue, but he understands the piteous message behind his pain-crazed gibbering. _Save me, save me, save me!_

Bertrand grimaces into the setting sun. “By the grace of the Light and the hairs on the backs of our necks, aye.”

~

If Bertrand had not altered the path of his sword at the last moment, he would have taken Reynauld’s fingers off. As it is, the furious arc cuts deep into his palm. Reynauld shouts and cradles the hand close to him, squeezing at it with his uninjured hand. Behind him, a child stifles a gasp with grimy hands.

“By the Light! What devil has possessed you?”

“Leave it be! He’s just a boy!”

The twilight coming in through the broken section of wall cuts a strip of purple across Bertrand’s face, illuminating a single outraged eye. It is bloodshot red, ringed around with sore, sleepless blue. This campaign has taken a heavy toll on all of them. Their company is less than half of what they had started with. Exhaustion, that impish fiend, clings hard to their backs and whispers to them sharp and frantic thoughts.

“Just a boy?” Bertrand’s upper lip curls over chipped teeth. Reynauld’s blood drips silently from the tip of Bertrand’s blade to the floor. “This is a _thief_. Do I need to remind you of last winter?”

As if Reynauld can ever forget that desperate, maddening hunger, which had almost consumed their bodies and all good and moral sense. His stomach still aches with the memory sometimes, even when full. He shakes his head, but steadies his stance, blocking more of the boy from Bertrand’s vengeful gaze. His uninjured hand, trembling, reaches for the hilt of his zweihänder.

“ _Don’t_.” Bertrand’s voice is cold and unyielding. “Move even an inch more, and I’ll have you strung up for treason before you have a chance to beg the Light for forgiveness.”

Reynauld’s hand twitches, fingers ghosting against the hilt. They relax, drop harmlessly to his side. “Captain… Please… Show mercy. He’s hungry, just like the rest of us.”

Bertrand’s nostrils flare. “Step aside, Reynauld.”

“I… I cannot, sir.”

“So be it.” Bertrand jerks his head over his shoulder and shouts something Reynauld cannot hear over his thundering heart. Two of Reynauld’s fellow crusaders fill the ruined arch. He cannot make out their faces in the shadows. Had they been waiting outside this entire time? Or had they heard the Captain’s command in passing? Why does it matter?

Bertrand looks back to Reynauld, his face as impassive and distant as the rising moon. “Seize him.”

The faceless men rush forwards, grasping at his shoulders and arms and dragging him to the side. He does not resist. He welcomes the excuse to fall back away from the child, even as his cowardice makes his soul bristle and rage against him. He hangs between them, arms twisted awkwardly, as Bertrand steps forward. The child, the stolen bread gripped between his stubby fingers, whimpers and throws his thin body closer against the wall.

He and the boy’s eyes connect. Those dull brown eyes reach out to him, wordless, begging, not understanding. Across the infinite gulf of their realities, Reynauld brushes up against a common thread. Innocence, as gentle and ignorant as a flower blooming in a graveyard, trembling beneath the hand of harsh discipline, calls for a protection that it can never have. His passivity falls away like a torn cloak, a resentful fire igniting deep in his chest. His old scars constrict like chains around his back, bringing forth a howl of useless regret. He thrashes against the men who hold him, against Father, against the eternal lick of the whip.

Bertrand’s blade gleams underneath the light of the full moon as he raises it.

“NO! HE IS JUST A CHILD! HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!”

Blind and deaf and stupidly fearful, the flower withers and crumbles to dust. Somewhere, behind the doors of a penance hall, a young boy cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I liked writing it!
> 
> Also, if I forgot to add any relevant tags, please let me know. It's been a few years since I last posted something on this website, so it's very possible that I forgot to include something.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was over Reynauld, but I guess not, haha! This was originally supposed to be a stand alone work, but after posting the first chapter I realized that I might have treated Reynauld a little too delicately. He's a crusader, after all, and chose to stick with the crusade all the way to the end. So, I thought I'd expand on that a little bit, while also sneaking in some speculative world-building. Although there's not much to go on in canon, I find the primary religion of Darkest Dungeon extremely interesting, so it was a lot of fun for me to include little hints at larger theological ideas.

_By the Light, it’s so beautiful here._

Reynauld sits outside his tent, his back to the pole and his face to the stars. The sky stretches its great celestial wings from horizon to horizon, unbound by tree or thatched village roof or piercing church steeple. Instead, it’s free to press its glimmering body close to the deep orange of the dunes, flush with great strokes of celestial light. Reynauld is made small in the face of its majesty, little more than a beetle skittering over the sand, ignorant of its own place within the eternal wheel…

“You should be asleep.”

“Captain.” Reynauld attempts to stand, choking back a whimper of pain. Though three days had passed since his lapse in devotion, his back still aches with the bite of the flogger. Still, it is not as bad as the harsh stripes he is used to. Punishment is not meted out through whips here. It’s too risky. One wrong stroke could put down an able fighter for days. And they certainly couldn’t spare the bandages.

Bertrand raises his hand. “That’s alright. Stay where you are.”

The sand shifts next to him as Bertrand settles himself. Reynauld sits back heavily, his eyes sliding over to the old captain. The fire of the main camp brushes at the edges of his head and the slope of his shoulders. The rest is left in darkness, as though a piece of the night sky itself had wandered down to terra firma. Bertrand tilts his head up to the sky. The light shifts to his profile, now carving a faint bust out of his shadowy figure.

“If there’s one thing I’ll miss about this hellish place… It’s this view.”

“It's beautiful, sir.”

The bodies of the Saints hang above them, laid out resplendently in white star fire. To the east, Saint Cato the Wise clutches his curled staff. To the west, Saint Zotic the Fervent wields his splayed cat-o’-nine-tails, each end a separate dot of light. Saint Aelia the Merciful at the south spreads her arms, adorned in holy lightning, and Saint Ico the Brave guards the the north, raising his halberd high. These Saints have watched over him since birth. When he had first learned of them through Father’s dusty books, they had been little more than stories to capture a young boy’s imagination. Out here, though, they are sacred guardians which must be directly appeased. Here, they take on a different character. They are more alive to him then they have ever been. They remind him of their divine purpose. One which must be achieved at all cost. Despite the toll. Despite his own petty ideas of right and wrong.

“You’ll be a Captain some day.” Bertrand speaks with absolute certainty. “Sooner than you might think, should the Light claim these old bones. I see the strength needed to lead in you.”

Reynauld shrinks from the praise, as a coward shrinks from the unknown. It hovers between them, unclaimed. He takes in a breath, releases it, and rids himself of fear. He accepts the praise as he accepts lashes.

“Thank you, sir. I hope I’m up to the task.”

“There can be no hope in this hell,” Bertrand answers firmly. “Only certainty. You will either rise to the occasion, or drag this entire company down into the mud with you.”

Reynauld cannot resent Bertrand. How can he, after hearing the burden that weights his voice? It is the kind of weight which is born from years of crushing responsibility. Hated and exalted, demon and savior. It does not matter to Bertrand how others see him, so long as he does what _must be done._ Reynauld’s weakness aches against this realization. He _wants_ to hate him. He executed _a child_. He knows that this prickling against necessary evil is childish thinking, which he thought had been bled out of him years ago. Still, the heart clings to its old ways.

“I understand.” Because he has no other choice.

“I thought you would. That’s because you’re a smart lad, Reynauld. Practical. I know you can’t imagine yourself leading this company now. That’s your humility talking. But, when the time comes for the orders to pass into your hands, you’ll be ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bertand’s stiff posture relaxes. Reynauld has chosen the correct response. Faith in the absence of hope. The older man sighs, barely audible over the distant howling of the desert zephyrs. Reynauld pretends not to have heard it.

“Get some rest.” Bertrand stands, dusting the sand from his palms. “That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bertrand leaves him. Reynauld crawls into his tent. Obedience in the absence of willpower. He lies on his side facing the cloth wall. He dreams of strangling his own son to death. The Saints watch him, smiling.

~

Reynauld sits with Bertrand as he dies. Around them is the wailing of the wounded, foreign tongues mixing discordantly with his homeland’s tongue. His homeland… Little more than a distant dream of grass and rain. Vultures cry as they circle the courtyard. Whispered cants and final prayers and the hushed chatter of the living weave underneath the clamor. It is a victory, undoubtedly. Yet, why does it ring so hollow? Reynauld’s body aches. Sweat stings his eyes.

“It’s time, Reynauld,” he whispers between blood-beaded lips. His skin is ashen, his soul half-gone. “You… the orders… You must carry them now… for the final push to Lux…”

Bertrand reaches to his belt, achingly slowly, his damp face screwing up with pain. Reynauld does not help him. The orders cannot be taken. They must be given. He will not rob Bertrand of this final dignity. Groaning, Bertrand yanks the intricate metal cylinder free from its leather sheath. He presses it into Reynauld’s waiting hands. It is heavier than Reynauld had expected. He tucks it into the empty leather sheath on his own belt.

Bertrand nods too many times. “Good, good… Keep them on you… always… The weight… You must feel the weight. Only look when you’ve… forgotten…”

“Yes, sir.” Reynauld’s throat is dry. His mind is thick. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me?” Bertrand wheezes, a shadow of his once hearty chuckle. “Don’t waste… that on me… Why should you care… for a dead man’s favor? Foolishness.”

It is foolish. Close to idol-worship. And yet… he knows that Bertrand’s shadow will follow him for as long as he walks this path. Possibly beyond that. He swallows. “I'll fetch a priest for you.” He begins to rise.

“ _No_.” The firmness in Bertrand’s voice shakes Reynauld. He falls back onto his knees

“But your absolution…”

“Damn my absolution!” Bertrand’s eyes are alight with the mania of the dying. “There is no absolution. My skin… my soul… stained with blood. Too much blood. I am a dark… and wretched thing. Do you understand? _There is no absolution_.”

“Heresy,” Reynauld whispers. “The Light-“

“The Light!” Bertrand chokes on a cough. Blood speckles over his chin. “I won’t let It take me! The humiliation… I am not worthy! I would disgrace It! I am not worthy! I will not! I cannot go!”

He’s fading fast. Reynauld takes his hand in his, because there’s nothing else he can do. The same hand once sliced open by the tip of the captain’s sword. Bertrand squeezes it hard.

“Please,” Reynauld begs. “Let me pray for you.”

“ _Don’t_.” Bertrand speaks through gritted teeth. “Would you… deny me the honor…” He wheezes, the feverish light in his eyes beginning to dwindle. “Of a final wish… even… heretics… are allowed…” His voice fades, but his mouth continues to move. Reynauld stares at his lips, trying to read the words there, despairing when he cannot.

Bertrand’s fingers loosen. Now Reynauld is the one clinging to his hand, as though he can pull him back from the brink. Reynauld’s face is slick. Sweat and nothing more, he tells himself, forced out by the desert sun. He bows his head, catches the prayer between his teeth before it can leave him, swallows it back down. Three deep breaths. He banishes the despair. He releases the corpse’s hand. He rises without looking at the body.

He turns. The nearest survivors - the _victors_ \- look to the glinting cylinder at his waist. One by one they kneel, press their forearms to their chest, lower their heads. Even those across the wide courtyard catch what is happening and follow suit. Soon, Reynauld is the only one standing in the courtyard choked with bodies, the others kneeling amongst the grime.

“We pledge our lives to your orders.” Each man recites the pledge of loyalty at a slightly different time, making it disjointed and rough, but true and bold all the same.

Reynauld had once been amongst that mass. The same words had once left his lips. He feels as though he is being clapped with irons.

He squares his shoulders.

“May the Light watch over my company.”

_His_ company.

_His_ orders.

_His_ crusade.

~

“That’s all we have left?” Regent Baldwin pulls his scarred mouth into a frown. The Leper King. The Crowned Corpse. Almost half a head taller than Reynauld and falling apart at the seams. The morning sun cuts through the shattered stained glass behind him, glinting off his simple crown. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Reynauld stands at the bottom of the dais before the Regent’s throne, which still bears the scars from his zweihander. He had left them there when he had dueled the Prince who had last sat in it. That had been little more than a year ago and that Prince had been little more than a boy. His ornate crown had looked absurd on his small, adolescent head. Even more so when it had clattered to the floor. It had been melted down and reshaped into some meaningless ornament shortly after. “I had the men count everything twice. There is no doubt.”

“Light preserve us,” murmurs Regent Baldwin. He rubs his chin with a bandaged hand. “The next few months will be lean indeed.”

“What of your own appeals to King Henry?”

“His Majesty does not listen.” Regent Baldwin sighs through his nose, sending an odd whistle through the dusty air. “Already, he is consumed by new causes. There is simply not enough to go around. Our river must carve its own path to the sea.”

There is never enough to go around. All that gold and all that power, and the King can’t loosen his purse enough to spare a few extra pounds of rations for his crusaders. Reynauld’s desperate letters for reinforcements, for equipment, for supplies, had all been denied. Now, even the sight of the Royal Seal is enough to make Reynauld’s stomach turn. Selfishness. Ingratitude. The King squeezes every last last drop of blood and sweat from their weary bodies while he grows fat on his swollen coffers and reaps the glory of their crusade.

They have cut a gory swath through this country and recaptured Lux, the City of Light. They have taken the places they were meant to take. Returned the holy relics. Wiped any and all signs of blasphemy from the cities. They have been the mindless war machine, fueled by holy orders and religious zeal, for as long as the King has willed it. Though the correct regents sit in the seats of power here, they control little more than ashen husks. These cities, though dens of iniquity and blasphemy, had once been jewels in the desert. Now, they are filled by the weeping of widows and the hard stares of war-orphans. The prosperity that had once abided here has bled into the sands, which drinks hungrily and offers no boons in return.

“There are other ways to find resources,” Reynauld begins slowly. “These dunes crawl with infidels. My scouts have reported clusters along the northern ridges. It would be an easy thing, to strike while they are recuperating and seize their wealth. Not to mention the resources the people within these very walls hoard…”

“You would have your company hunt down displaced families?” Regent Baldwin’s frown deepens. “And steal bread from the mouths of widowed mothers and their children?”

A sudden bout of helplessness grips Reynauld. He does not _understand._ Regent Baldwin, only a few years younger than himself, had been born out in these wild lands to Regent Baldwin III, back at the beginning of the second crusade. He has marched in battle before and has been recognized for his prowess despite his creeping illness. He is no fainting dandy, unused to the hard necessities of war. If this had not made him understand the true nature of their battle, Reynauld’s desperate pleas will do nothing to sway him. This is a kind of weakness that cannot be scoured out by anything less than death. Perhaps, had he been born in the homeland as the heir to King Richard I, he would have made a great King indeed, wise and generous and beloved by all. Out here, though, they do not need a monarch of grace and mercy. They need a despot of fire and brimstone.

“Your Highness, with all due respect, this is a facade meant to keep us from acting.” Reynauld has to try, for the sake of all who depend on him. “These cowards use their women and children as shields to appeal to our better nature. I have encountered this myself. The only way to rout them out is by breaking their shields. They will not willingly reveal themselves until they are prepared to win.”

“You are zealous in your application of force. This is admirable, but you would do well to remember that the field becomes barren underneath the harsh hand.”

It is the first half of an old Proverb, one of Saint Cato’s if Reynauld remembers correctly. Regent Baldwin’s quotation fills Reynauld with ire. It is as though Reynauld is a child again, being gently corrected by a Brother for his gross misunderstanding of a simple verse. He prickles at the perceived judgment. The Regent believes he can wield his understanding of the Saint’s work as a shepherd wields his crook.

“And withers when tended by the weak,” Reynauld finishes. Regent Baldwin’s reaction is impossible to read underneath that golden mask. At the very least, Reynauld believes that he has distinguished himself in the Regent’s mind. Reynauld is no wayward sheep to be nudged back into line, no glorified foot-soldier who operates on principles of animal desire. He is an educated man and he will be treated as such.

“You are familiar with the Sage’s work.” It is a neutral statement, revealing neither surprise or anger. “Then perhaps you will recognize this Proverb as well: ‘The broken blade, though shattered by its wielder, is a failure unto itself.’ There will be _no_ engagement with the enemy unless they aggress upon us first, and you will _not_ seize the property of the people here, except as punishment for a crime.”

There is a warning tangled inside of that Proverb. Reynauld bites the side of his cheek. He understands the wisdom behind his decree. Even if Regent Baldwin had no moral objections to Reynauld’s course of action, they have limited supplies as it is. It would be a risky gambit to send men out into the dunes to chase ghosts, who may be as poorly supplied as they are. Better to consolidate resources, preserve strength, and maintain the boundaries of the conquered areas. It is also wise to endear the conquered to their new ruler, as much as is possible. Even though it will make the men restless, these are wise choices.

Wise, but cowardly.

And, if Reynauld has learned anything from this crusade, cowardice means death. It means watching a renegade troop of fanatics slaughter a quarter of your company in their sleep. It means starving to death while sieging a city. It means allowing little spies to sabotage your equipment, so that it falls apart just as you need it most.

“Forgive my forwardness, Your Highness, but while we shrink behind Lux’s walls, the enemy grows stronger. Even now, they are undoubtedly receiving reinforcements from sympathetic countries. The longer we wait, the more certain it is that they will attack us.” Reynauld swallows as his voice begins to shake with passion. The lives of the countless men in his company presses down on his shoulders. “Should matters continue like this, we will _not_ be able to turn back the tide of invaders. We must strike _now_ , while we still have strength.”

“I have given you my answer, Commander. The land must be allowed to heal.”

“How long will we continue to shy away from our enemies?” Reynauld blurts out, his frustration boiling over. “I said nothing when you granted clemency to converts, though many were the same men who cut down our own. I helped to distribute the alms for the families of the dead myself, even while we cut our own rations, and still I held my tongue. I will no longer stand idly by while you allow Lux to crumble! The men here depend on your leadership to see us through, Your Highness. We have no other options.”

“And what do you intend to do instead of standing idly by?” Regent Baldwin’s tone is measured, but carries a deadly barb beneath its calm surface.

Reynauld has spoken too hotly and too quickly. He has little experience with the careful maneuverings of court, too used to the blunt way of speaking favored by soldiers of all ranks. He goes down on one knee, ignoring the shock of pain that pierces through his back. He bows his head. “My deepest apologies, Your Highness. I spoke out of turn.”

Silence hangs heavy in the throne room.

“Rise.”

Reynauld obeys.

“You are forgiven. I know that what you say comes from concern for your men. I understand that plundering was necessary while you pressed through these lands. This, however, is no longer a battlefield. This is the King’s newest state. There will be no mindless oppression. We are to exemplify the enduring Flame to these lost souls. I will seek aid from our allies to the West. The Light will see us through.”

“I understand, Your Highness.”

“You may go.”

Reynauld bows, then leaves. By the time he reaches the courtyard, he is seething.

If the nobility will not help him, he will help himself.

~

Reynauld slips his sword between the boy’s ribs. It is not the first child he has killed. Not even close. It is, however, the first unarmed child he has killed. The boy had darted out of a nearby tent and had surprised him. Instinct had taken over.

The boy screams. Such a small sound. His eyes are watery, rimmed red, pleading for a life he’ll never truly experience. His small hands grasp at the sword, as though to remove it. Reynauld pulls his sword out. The boy collapses onto the sand, choking on his own blood. Just a boy. His own boy, isn’t he older than this child now? How many years has it been since he had last thought of…? The infant he had held in his hands back then, Elizabeth smiling from their shared bed… These things are like the memory of a dream. The old doubts press in. His resolve wavers. He rests his hand on his orders. Breathe in. Breathe out. No. This boy would have starved to death anyways. This is mercy. This is justice. This is what’s necessary. _He will not drag this company down into the mud._

He looks around the encampment. His men are executing the few women who had managed to hold their own against the crusaders. He had underestimated these desert women. They had been as fierce as their male counterparts and had hidden deadly scimitars underneath their flowing robes. A few had even managed to bring down a couple of his own. In the end, they had been no match for his fully armored company.

Hunger sharpens his senses to a razor’s edge. The sun is rising to his left. The sand still smells of the chilled night air. The colorful tents around him bead with dew. The goats bleat and thrash, stinking of shit. Black flies, as big as the end of his thumb, buzz around steaming guts and not-yet-dry eyes.

“Gather all that you can carry!” Reynauld bellows, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Leave no tent unturned! Rope their livestock to the horses! Tonight, we eat like kings!” And so will the jackals.

His men, who look as weary as he feels, manage a lackluster cheer. A few of the fresher ones turn their heads away in disgust from the frail bodies they had been ordered to slaughter. Reynauld senses no rebellion in them, though. They have gone hungry for too long to allow something as trifling as honor to interfere with their judgment.

“Sir Reynauld.” His lieutenant, Thomas, approaches with a sack of grain on his back. “What shall we tell His Highness?”

“We will tell him what he needs to know,” Reynauld answers as he wipes his sword off onto trousers of the dying boy. “And no more. Understood?”

“Aye, sir. They attacked us while we were patrolling the border. They were a full force of fighting men. We had no other choice.”

“Make sure there’s no misunderstanding amongst the men. We must be as unified as possible.”

“Aye, sir.” Thomas leaves to enforce his orders.

Regent Baldwin need not know that they had stolen upon this merchant caravan in the dead of night. He need not know that all that they had found here had been fleeing families. These are not things for a Regent to concern himself with. Reynauld will keep these secrets for him, and tell him only what he needs to know and what he wants to hear. Only through the grace of the Light had they had they managed to turn the battle in their favor and recover these riches. A fortuitous occurrence indeed, as they can now save their company from starvation and repair their aging equipment. 

Reynauld enters the tent the boy had run out of. He kicks open the trunk at the base of a resplendent bedroll. Desert trinkets sparkle up at him. If there’s a little left over for Reynauld after the men have been fed, their armor repaired, and their weapons sharpened, Regent Baldwin doesn’t need to know about that, either. It is his reward, and a hard earned one at that. He deserves to have _something_ to show for this hellish march. Something other than bloody hands and new scars and memories of fresh faces falling before his sword like wheat before the scythe.

Reynauld has sacrificed much. Now he will claim all.

~

His son smiles at him. Twelve, maybe thirteen years old. The spitting image of his father. Next to him, her arm wrapped around his sturdy shoulders, stands Elizabeth. The memory of her sweet smell brushes up against him. It is a tender confession whispered into a gale. His heart pulses, longing and remembering, heavy and hurting. His chest trembles beneath an inch of steel. This is the final blow. It passes with the next heartbeat. The heart thickens itself. The old desires sieve off as though they had never been there. _There is no absolution._

He flicks his horse’s reigns. The loyal beast nickers, turns its body, and carries him away from that soft valley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know right now, this is the final chapter. If a new concept for Reynauld grips me, I'll probably make that a separate work, to avoid making this one too bloated and confusing. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed :)


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